


On the Shores of Each Other

by Daisy_Rivers



Series: These Fall-in-Loves [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Love, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_Rivers/pseuds/Daisy_Rivers
Summary: You're getting a promotion and a raise. Rafa wants to help you celebrate, and your shirt has lots of buttons.





	On the Shores of Each Other

You have been taking on more and more responsibility at Norland Press, and when your boss tells you he’d like to talk to you after lunch, there’s no reason for you to feel anxious. You do anyway, of course, and by the time you present yourself in Mr. Pratt’s office at one-thirty, you’re already thinking about how to update your resume in case he wants to fire you.

Mr. Pratt is in his fifties, with a fluffy ring of silver-gray hair around his bald spot, and a habit of looking over his glasses. He’s been in charge of Norland for years. There may have been a Mr. Norland at one time, but no one who works there remembers any boss except Mr. Pratt.

You sit down nervously at Mr. Pratt’s invitation, and he peers at you over his glasses, but he’s smiling, so that’s a good sign.

“We’ve been very pleased with your work, Y/N,” he says. Mr. Pratt always uses the first person plural, as if Norland has a senior staff of dozens, when in reality it’s only him and his associate editor Nancy, who’s been there almost as long as he has. There have been rumors about Nancy’s relationship with Mr. Pratt, who is at least ten years older than she is, but nobody really knows anything. Nancy’s nice enough, and you’re not interested in office gossip, so you just brush it all off.

As it turns out, Nancy is the reason Mr. Pratt wants to talk to you today. It seems Nancy needs to have surgery – nothing terribly serious, he assures you, but something that will keep her out of work for several weeks. Tomorrow, Friday, will be her last day for a while. Mr. Pratt is asking if you would be prepared to step into Nancy’s position for the period of time that she is on sick leave and then, if all goes well, you would be given the new job title of junior associate editor, and a corresponding raise in pay. Mr. Pratt tells you he will also give you half of the proposed raise during Nancy’s absence.

“That will be a sort of – well, let’s call it a trial period for you,” he says, smiling. “I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

You thank him, a bit flustered, but excited. A promotion will mean more say in what Norland publishes, and probably more interesting projects to work on.

You aren’t quite prepared, though, for Mr. Pratt’s next bit of information. You’re only half listening, thinking ahead of how you’re going to tell Rafael and what the two of you might do to celebrate, so when you hear Mr. Pratt say, “I’ve emailed you the flight information,” you have to ask him to repeat himself.

You’re leaving for Atlanta on Monday to meet with Thomas Palmer, a history professor who is writing a book called _Losing the Lost Cause_ about changing views on the Confederacy. It sounds interesting, and it’s certainly timely, so Mr. Pratt wants to get Palmer to sign with Norland before other publishers come around with offers. Your job involves two things: first, make sure that Palmer is writing to schedule and following the outline that Mr. Pratt has already approved, and second, get Palmer’s signature on a contract.

You text Rafa before you leave the office, but just “I HAVE BIG NEWS!” because you want to tell him in person. You should have known better because he immediately texts back with questions.

 **Rafa:** What? What is it?

 **You:** Tell you when I get there.

 **R:** Is it good?

 **Y:** Yes

 **R:** So tell me.

 **Y:** Soon.

 **R:** Tell me NOW!

 **Y:** Nope.

 **R:** You’re killing me, girl.

 **Y:** Hyperbole.

 **R:** You want me to order dinner?

 **Y:** Sure.

 **R:** Not unless you tell me your news!

 **Y:** Oh, well, hope you’re not hungry.

 **R:** I hate you.

 **Y:** Do not. Gotta drive now, see you in a few.

Your text signal continues to go off every minute or two all the way home, but you’re not going to risk getting a ticket because of Rafa’s impatience. You pull into the parking lot of his apartment building about forty minutes later, half-expecting to see him waiting there. He’s not quite that crazy, so you take the elevator up, thinking for a minute about the first time you did that, the night of Anthony’s cookout. Rafa was with you then, holding your hand and smiling at you, while you felt like an entire flock of butterflies were flapping around in your stomach. It’s been several months since then and things have gone well. Better than well, really, and here you are, feeling like you’re coming home. You still have your own apartment, but the fact is that you and Rafa rarely sleep apart these days. You just haven’t yet had that conversation about moving in together.

You unlock the door, but the knob won’t turn and you realize immediately that Rafa is holding it on the inside. You look over your shoulder, but none of the neighbors are in the hall, so you knock on the door and yell, “Let me in!”

Rafa opens the door a crack, but the safety chain is still up. “Why should I?” he asks.

“Because I have news that will make you happy,” you tell him.

You can see his eyes and they’re as blue as an October sky. He shuts the door, unhooks the chain and swings it open, and you throw yourself into his arms for a welcome-home kiss, but he turns his face away. “News first,” he insists.

“Promotion! Raise! Kiss me!”

He does, picking you up and swinging you around, and then he sets you down on the couch so you can tell him all the details.

“Wait, you’re going to Atlanta?” he interrupts.

“On Monday,” you answer, nodding.

A grin spreads across his face. “A real business trip.”

You grin back at him. “Oh, wait till you hear. I mean, the company is putting me up in an actual Holiday Inn. Be still, my heart.”

You both laugh, but you really are excited. It’s never been easy for you to push yourself forward, but you’ve worked hard at your job, and now it looks like it’s going to pay off.

“I’ve got to remember that the promotion is dependent on my doing a good job while Nancy’s out,” you remind both yourself and Rafael. “I don’t know how much of that is getting Palmer’s signature on a contract.”

He pulls you in for a hug. “You’ll do great.”

You nod a little doubtfully. “I’ll have to spend tomorrow reading everything we’ve got on this guy. I can only hope he doesn’t write long emails.”

Rafa raises a skeptical eyebrow. “He’s a writer, babe. Writers tend to be very wordy.”

You kiss his jaw, the only thing you can reach without changing your comfortable position. “Really? How would I know?”

He responds to that by tickling you, you retaliate, and then you’re both on the floor laughing hysterically. You realize your nice professional gray wool skirt is hiked up to your waist, and Rafa is taking full advantage of the situation by sliding a finger inside the waistband of your tights.

“Pantyhose are the work of Satan,” he mutters, and you try to twist away, giggling.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he whines. “Don’t be mean.”

“Can I at least hang my skirt up so it doesn’t get ruined?”

“I will be more than glad to help you out of your skirt,” he assures you, “but I want to make a bonfire of all your pantyhose.”

“Um, no, that’s not happening. I need them for work.”

He gives an exaggerated sigh and follows you into the bedroom, where he helps you out of your skirt and your white silk blouse so that you can hang them up.

“You know what might be nice?” he asks, his head tilted as if he’s thinking.

“What?”

“Just that blouse with nothing else. I like the way it feels.”

“Mm, I think Mr. Pratt might have a problem with that.”

“I didn’t mean for _work_ ,” he tells you, rolling his eyes as if you had actually misunderstood him.

You’re standing there in your bra, panties, and tights, and you give him a thoughtful smile. “I think that could be arranged,” you say.

“Oh, I like the way this is going,” he murmurs.

“You’ll need to step out of the room for a few minutes.”

He starts to object, then throws up his hands as you wave him out the door. You click the lock, just to be sure, and take off the rest of your clothes. You step into the adjoining bathroom for a quick onceover with toothbrush and washcloth, run a brush through your hair, and then put the white silk shirt back on. The fabric is not sheer, but thin, and you see your nipples pressing against it. Rafa will like that. It has small buttons all the way down the front. Usually you leave the top two unbuttoned, but now you fasten them all. He’ll like that too. Rafa has a thing for undoing buttons. The shirt isn’t long enough for any real modesty. You turn your back to the mirror and look over your shoulder. The bottom of the shirt skims your hips, and if you stand perfectly still, it might almost cover your ass. You’re not planning on standing perfectly still. Looking at yourself in the mirror like that, you think about how Rafa will react to seeing you, and you can feel yourself getting wet in anticipation.

There’s a tentative knock at the door. “You gonna let me in soon?” he asks, knowing the answer.

You unlock the door. “Come on in.”

You’re facing him as he opens the door, and you watch his face. His eyes are still clear blue, and his lashes flutter over them for a moment as he catches his breath.

“Oh, you lovely girl,” he whispers, and he has you in his arms, lifting you onto the bed. He got rid of his shirt and shoes while he was waiting for you, and he lies down next to you, sliding his right hand into your hair and leaning over you for a kiss. His mouth is soft, and he takes his time. It’s one of the things you love most about him. He kisses you gently, thoroughly, exploring as if you were unknown territory. His tongue slides along the inside of your bottom lip to the sensitive corner of your mouth. He flicks it rapidly, and you shiver, feeling it all the way down your body. You feel him smile against your mouth, and you know it’s that self-satisfied smile that he always has when he does something that excites you.

He loves watching you, and the more uninhibited you are the more he loves it. After years of being self-conscious about your awkwardness, uncomfortable with your body, embarrassed about making noise, you find that Rafa delights in your body and only wants to spend more time investigating to find what touches and movements arouse you. He likes it when you whimper and moan, is thrilled when he brings you to the screaming point. “Don’t hold back,” he said to you early on. “Don’t ever feel that you have to hold anything back in any way.”

So you learned not to hold back. Now, his left hand slides over your silk shirt, feeling your nipples hard under it. He pinches one through the silk, and you arch up to him, wanting more. He bends over you, takes the other nipple in his mouth, scraping it with his teeth over the fabric, not quite biting, but pulling it, and you are ready for him to bite harder, pull harder, but he waits.

He traces the row of buttons from your throat to your navel with his finger. “So many buttons,” he murmurs, pleased, and starts unbuttoning at the top, running his fingers over your skin as each button comes undone. After four buttons are open, he kisses your throat, then licks a line down to the fifth button. “I like to taste you,” he says. “I like the way your skin tastes.”

You want the shirt off now because you want to rub yourself against his chest. You love the feel of his hard muscles and the soft fuzz of hair against your breasts. He’s unfastening the buttons slowly, and you can’t lie still. When your breasts are finally exposed, you push up toward his mouth, and he sucks hard, the nipple between his teeth. Your hips jerk involuntarily, and you feel the warm wetness that makes you ready to take him in. Not yet, though. He wants you more than ready for him. He wants you eager, needy, aching, begging for him. He starts on your other breast, and rolls this nipple between his fingers.

You’re breathing hard. “Please,” you murmur.

He unbuttons another button. “I want to take your shirt off first,” he tells you. He glances over at your right hand clutching and unclutching the sheet, and smiles that sleepy-eyed smile of his. His eyes are gray now, ocean-gray, with a touch of green. “Go ahead,” he says. “You know I like to watch.”

You put your hand between your legs and start to rub, and he leans back to watch you. You can make yourself come this way – you used to do it often, before Rafa, but it’s nothing like as good as coming against his flicking tongue or with him inside you. It feels good, though, and you’re dripping wet. You take his hand and wipe your fingers against his. He lets out a hard breath and won’t let go of your hand. He pulls it over to the waistband of his jeans, and you unzip them and slide your hand in. He’s not wearing anything under the jeans, so it’s easy for you to take him in your hand, feel how hard he is, and start stroking him. You’re moving slowly and gently on him, but all you can think about is getting this inside you, and you want so much to straddle him and push down hard. You start to pull his jeans down, and he helps you, kicks them off, and rolls to his side. He’s still working on the last few buttons, and when you try to twist around to get your mouth on him, he blocks you with his arm. You put your hand back between your legs and get your fingers slick and wet, and you wipe that wetness onto his cock. Rafa gasps and throws his head back, and you do it again, sliding your fingers up and down on him and he says, “Ah, shit,” through his teeth.

He manages the last buttons at lightning speed, and you toss your shirt in the direction of the floor, and then you get on your knees and start to tease him, licking long, slow strokes, tasting yourself on him, tasting him. You take the tip of his cock in your mouth and suck a little, swirling your tongue around it, and you can hear him moaning and cursing. “Shit, fuck, Y/N, you’re gonna kill me.”

You lift your head to smile at him, and he’s looking at you through his eyelashes, his lips parted, and his breath coming fast. “Turn around,” he tells you, his words barely audible, but you know what he’s saying. You know what he wants. You kneel over him, your knees against his shoulders, and he grabs your hips as you go down on him again. He pulls you against his mouth and opens you with his thumbs so his tongue can find your clit, and that first warm, wet skim over it makes you start whimpering. Your mouth is full of him as you slide back and forth, licking and sucking, your hands gripping his thighs. His tongue is flicking back and forth, then circling, harder, softer, faster, slower, making you wait.  His thumbs hold you open, sliding in and stretching you. He adds two fingers, pushing into you as he licks tighter circles, and as you get closer, you move faster on him. You tremble right on the edge for long seconds, and then you go over, wailing and shaking, falling into that immense shimmering cascade of pleasure. His tongue stays on your clit, because he loves to feel the quivering, and you suck on him harder, wanting him with you. Almost instantly, he comes in your mouth, his hips jerking up hard, and you half spit, half swallow, because you’re not good at that part. Rafa doesn’t care, yelling, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as he finishes. You trail sticky kisses across his stomach, and he slides his fingers in and out of you a few more times to feel the last spasms, and then you turn yourself so that your head is on his shoulder and his arms are around you. He kisses your forehead and your eyelids and your messy face, holding you tight against him. He’s so warm you never want to move, but he reaches for his lighter and cigarettes, so you give him room to maneuver, resting your head on his chest. “I have to wash my hair,” you tell him.

He chuckles. “Did we make a mess again?”

“Mm-hm.”

He inhales some smoke, blows it out. “So worth it. I’ll change the sheets while you get a shower.”

You rub your cheek across his chest and rest it on the tattoo over his heart, the James Baldwin quote with the Celtic knotted capital I, another Black Irish metaphor inked on his skin. “If I love you …”

He loves you. You know it in every corner of your soul.

“Did you order dinner?” you ask.

“I forgot,” he responds, face palming. “I’ll do that while you’re in the shower, too.”

You prop yourself up on your elbow to see his face. “Damn, I must have been good.”

He grins, and the smoke he exhales floats in curled wisps over his head. His eyes are between gray and blue now. “Spectacular,” he says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Rafael's poem "Beaches." The story of Rafa's first Black Irish tattoo -- "La sangre llama" -- is beautifully told in a spoken word presentation that is hard to find and doesn't seem to have a title, but is worth hunting down on YouTube. Try entering DSCN0628 in YouTube's search bar.  
> Hope you enjoy this little fantasy. I'd love to know what you think.


End file.
